Have Your Cake

by Elise K. Ackers

  Dillon hissed, but nothing toppled. Nothing even moved. It was secure.

  Brittany’s smaller hands appeared on the stand, her arms under and over Abigail’s in just the right way. Months of practice. She counted them down from three, then together they lifted the centrepiece off its rotating cake stand and lowered it carefully into the box. They did this twice more, then put the smaller, lighter bouquets into the smaller boxes with considerably more ease.

  Lastly came the dry ice; long thin sachets cold enough to blitz a fingerprint, lowered into purpose-built voids either side of the middle.

  Dillon watched them put the lids in place, then seemed to realise the next part was on him. ‘Steve’s parked down the street. I’ll get him to come to the loading bay now.’

  Abigail and Brittany didn’t stop. Brittany draped ribbon the colour of fairy floss around the bouquet boxes as Abigail lit the wick of a plum-red stick of wax. She dripped the wax onto the ribbon, securing it in place, then pressed a small gold seal against it—the company’s logo surrounded by a heart. Two more times, then there was only the delivery to be done.

  When they pulled their hairnets off, it felt as good as popping the cork on a bottle of bubbly.

  The three of them carried the boxes out to the loading bay with the same degree of care given to a newborn. And the van was perfect. It had cargo holds almost perfectly fit-for-purpose. Steve, a thin blond-haired man with a pronounced chin, helped with the bouquets then leapt back behind the wheel.

  ‘Steve’s driving me?’ Abigail asked, taking the box of spare piping bags from Brittany and sliding it into the back.

  ‘Driving us,’ Dillon said. He pushed his hand across his mouth, which rustled the plastic bag hanging from his wrist. ‘I’m too shaky to do it myself. I figured you might feel the same.’

  She closed the back doors and wiped her hands. ‘You don’t have to come to the venue. I just needed you for all of this.’ She gestured at the shop. ‘I’m grateful,’ she began, but he held his hand up and stopped her.

  ‘I’m seeing this through.’

  She smiled.

  Brittany clapped her hands. ‘Go! For god’s sake, go!’

  ‘Right.’ Abigail felt the gears in her body start again. ‘I need my handbag.’ Brittany dropped it onto her shoulder. ‘Oh. Thank you. Go home, don’t open up again.’

  ‘Just as well, there’s nothing to sell now anyway.’ Brittany reached around Abigail and untied the apron strings, then held her hand out.

  Abigail lifted the apron clear of her head and handed it over. ‘No. I’ll fix that tonight.’

  ‘Want me to come back?’ Brittany asked.

  ‘No. You were magnificent today. Thank you.’

  The women hugged, then Abigail hastened around to the passenger side of the van. She wanted to be on her way, but there was time enough to leave Brittany alone with the man who smiled only for her.

  Inside the van, Steve welcomed her with a hearty hello. His smile was apologetic, as if Dillon’s actions were somehow his to answer for. She wondered if he was Dillon’s boss. He was dressed in pressed trousers and a collared shirt the colour of a midlife crisis convertible; a full-bodied red that spoke of speed and power. There was a small emblem sewn onto the breast pocket: a chrome mag wheel with a word beneath it that she didn’t get a chance to read before he turned back to the steering wheel.

  ‘Where’re we off to?’ he asked.

  Abigail gave him the address and he whistled.

  ‘Across town.’ He glanced at her. ‘But we’ll make it. A few sharp turns and a lot of acceleration and we’ll even be early.’

  She smiled. He’d clearly been briefed on the fragility of his cargo.

  Dillon appeared at the passenger door and lifted himself up onto the bench seat. Abigail scooted closer to Steve, belted up, then they were on their way.

  It took forty-eight minutes to get from Camden Park to Cazenove—traffic was bad. All the while, Abigail tried to place the curious smell that clung to Dillon’s skin, something she hadn’t noticed before because there’d been more space between them, and the smell of sugar and sponge had overridden everything else. It was unfamiliar. Sweet, but a touch unwelcoming. It made her so aware of her lungs.

  She was relieved when it was time to step out of the van. She took a deep drag of fresh air before she joined the others at the back.

  ‘Let’s take the bouquets in first,’ she said. ‘Give the bride something to gush over.’

  Steve changed the direction of his hands and lifted the nearest bouquet box. Abigail took the bride’s one for herself, and Dillon took the third. They walked in a strange kind of procession, through the wrought iron driveway gates thrown wide, to the front door where Abigail used her knuckle to press the doorbell. There were blush pink ribbons and baby’s breath blooms tied to the screen door.

  A man opened the inside door. He was shadowed through the screen, but Abigail knew at once that she was looking at the father of the bride. He looked handsome and so sentimental about what must be going on inside that Abigail felt a small ache in her heart. She’d never had a father figure, and would never know this familial joy.

  ‘Mr Moore?’ Abigail ventured.

  ‘Yes, I’m Randall Moore.’

  ‘I’m Abigail from Boucake. We have your daughter’s bouquets.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful.’ He sprang towards the screen door and Abigail stepped aside. He waved her in, then waited as the men behind her followed her inside. ‘May I see?’ His voice had become child-like, as if the question were naughty.

  Abigail knew from her consultation with the bride that Lucy’s family was sceptical about her choice to substitute traditional flowers for sugar creations—it would be exciting to see his reaction.

  Alas, ‘There’s a wax seal on each.’

  Randall’s face fell.

  ‘Is Lucy here?’

  ‘Abby! Abbyabbyabbyabby!’ A blur of pink and silver silk exploded out of the nearest room—the bride-to-be in a pretty robe with Chinese blossoms. Three months ago she’d had peroxide blonde hair and a nose ring. Today she was a chocolate brunette and the small hoop had been exchanged for a pink sapphire. ‘You’re early! I love that you’re early!’

  Abigail glanced at Dillon. ‘Not too early I hope.’

  ‘No! Can I see?’

  ‘You can do whatever you like. This one is yours.’ Abigail lifted the box in her arms a fraction.

  Lucy whirled around. ‘Come see this,’ she called into the next room, ‘it’s the flowers!’

  They were almost trampled by two bridesmaids and two mothers.

  Dillon and Steve hastily set their boxes down on the nearby dining table because there were elbows flying everywhere.

  With everyone gathered around her, Lucy broke the wax seal with a little squeal, then carefully lifted the lid away. The collective gasp made Abigail’s heart soar.

  ‘I thought you were getting cakes?’ Randall commented, leaning over the bobbing heads.

  Lucy laughed. ‘Dad, these are cakes. Lots of little, beautiful cakes.’

  Randall leaned closer. He examined the delicate petal work, the colour gradation and the leaves, then frowned and straightened. ‘I’ll be damned,’ he muttered.

  It was the kind of reaction Abigail woke up for each day.

  ‘They won’t lose their shape before the ceremony?’ one of the older women asked. Not easily impressed, Abigail thought, and clearly prone to worry.

  ‘I’ve supplied dry ice to keep them cool. The packets will last for hours. Put the bouquets back in their boxes after you’ve got the photos you want, and leave them in until you’re ready for your aisle music. They’ll be perfect for a good two hours after the ceremony, maybe more with this kind of day as it’s not too warm.’ She glanced at Lucy and winked. ‘Just remember to keep them a good distance from your dress.’ She looked over to the mother who’d spoken. ‘We’ll get the centrepieces in place now, but we’ll leave them in their boxes. When you’re ready for t
hem, the box tears apart in a very special way. Could I show you how so you can tell who you need to?’

  The worrier straightened her spine and lifted her chin. ‘Of course,’ she said importantly.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Lucy said. She leaned around the box and kissed Abigail smartly on the cheek. ‘You’re perfect. Thank you so much.’

  ‘You helped make these?’ one of the bridesmaids asked Dillon. She trailed her fingers over one of the boxes on the table as she eyed the smudges of colour on his shirt. He’d mocked Abigail’s apron at first, but had later acknowledged the need for it. There was as much pink on his shirt as there was on the screen door. His flat mouth opened a fraction. He looked to Steve for help, but Steve just shrugged.

  ‘He was a big help,’ Abigail said, and smiled. She turned back to Lucy. ‘We’ll get out of the way. Congratulations. Remember: I want you to shove at least one of these into someone’s face, you got it?’

  Lucy giggled. ‘I’ve already picked my victim.’

  Abigail handed over the bride’s bouquet, then led the way outside. Back to the van for the last three boxes, both mothers close on her heels.

  Dillon stood close by when Abigail settled a centrepiece on the table, and watched as she explained how to unfold the box and tear it free without needing to lift the whole thing again. There were discreet little perforations on the bottom, varying sizes of circles to accommodate varying sizes of vases. Only a perfectly sized circle of reinforced cardboard would be left behind.

  ‘What if the tablecloths aren’t white?’ he asked, when the women were satisfied and the pair of them were walking back to the van.

  ‘I can’t solve all the world’s problems,’ Abigail replied, smiling. ‘If they’re not white and they don’t want a little white circle under the vase, they’ll just have to lift it out of the box the old-fashioned way.’

  She began to laugh. Exhilaration. Relief. Despite everything, she was here and her clients were happy. The business would live to see another five-star rating. She pushed her hands through her hair and filled her lungs properly for what felt like the first time all day.

  They reached the passenger door of the van. Dillon put his hand on the handle before she could.

  ‘How early are we?’ he asked.

  Abigail crossed her arms and looked away. She couldn’t fight the smile that pulled her lips wide. ‘The ceremony begins at five-thirty.’

  She looked back. Dillon was finally smiling at her. That curious, top-teeth smile she’d thought only for effervescent twenty-five-year-olds. ‘Clever,’ he said. ‘A soft deadline.’

  She uncrossed her arms. ‘Thank you for everything.’

  ‘For everything?’

  Abigail conceded this with a chuckle. ‘Well, not quite. But thank you for everything after.’

  Something moved into his eyes. Something shadowed and intense, something serious and intriguing. He moved a fraction closer and that sweet smell filled her nose again. It smelled like trespass and indulgence. Like one of those secrets best not shared.

  ‘Can I take you to tea?’ he asked quietly. He seemed to not know where to put his gaze; on her eyes, on the wrinkles she got on her nose when she smiled, on her mouth. He looked like he was trying to see all of her at once, and the intensity of his attention was dizzying. ‘Not tonight,’ he clarified. ‘I know you’re busy. But soon?’

  She pressed her lips together and angled her head to the side. There was a warmth low in her belly that appreciated his attention, and her legs seemed to wish to draw her closer. He smiled in anticipation, as if hearing her thoughts.

  ‘I’m really flattered,’ she said. ‘But hell no.’

  Chapter 2

  Amazing amazing

  Base level instinct dragged Dillon from unconsciousness. There was someone in his house. Someone unexpected. And the primal part he’d almost drowned last night wanted to know if this was a fight or flight situation.

  It turned out to be neither.

  Mary-Anne was tiptoeing quietly past the couch.

  Evidently he hadn’t made it as far as the bed. He’d pay for that later, this couch was a bitch on the back—he’d been meaning to replace it for months—but at least it hadn’t been the floor again.

  ‘’t time is it?’ he asked the woman. It was more gurgle than question, but she understood.

  ‘Quarter past two,’ she answered quietly. She picked up as many beer bottles as she could carry and moved out of sight.

  Dillon rolled onto his stomach. And groaned. He made to lift his hand to his face but there was a heavy thunk then a crash of glass, followed by quick footsteps.

  Mary-Anne reappeared, dropped to her haunches and began collecting the debris. The faint floral scent of her shampoo was a stark contrast to the smell of his armpit. He put his arm down. He remembered the perfume she’d worn when she’d come here after hours. A strong vanilla that had all-but drugged him. The taste of her that had consumed him.

  Or had that been the previous house cleaner?

  He angled his head and narrowed his eyes at Mary-Anne’s profile. Small button nose, onyx hair. Lips that seemed to go on and on. He’d definitely had those lips on him.

  Hadn’t he?

  And if not, why not?

  She glanced at him then stood, a bottle of wine in each arm. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, ‘they’re empty.’

  ‘Sounds about right.’

  She moved away, back to the kitchen where there were more bottles, and things to scrub that didn’t bear thinking about. Two o’clock. Not bad, considering.

  He accepted the glass of water that appeared over his head with a gasp of gratitude. And could have kissed her (again?) when she offered him two small pills.

  He inched up, just enough not to choke, then tossed the painkillers into his mouth and downed the water. A moment later the glass was wordlessly removed from his slack grasp. He said thank you to the ceiling, then attempted to sit up.

  It took a while.

  It was a sorry sight to behold when he looked around. He’d changed into tracksuit bottoms at some point and left the sugar-soiled, blood-stained clothes of yesterday in various places on the floor. He’d slipped on the rug—it was sitting askew in the hallway. That was a very unfortunate, very clear memory. He touched the back of his head. There were still beer bottles to clear on the coffee table, and shaking hands and clumsy feet had crushed potato crisps into all manner of places. Anyone would think he’d had a party, but there appeared to be only one wine glass to be washed.

  ‘Mary-Anne?’ The volume of his voice made his head pound.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is it just you and me?’

  She set the recycle bin down then crossed to the bedroom door. She looked in. ‘Yes. Just us.’

  He nodded.

  Of course, it would have been nice to hear there was a beautiful blonde in his bed. A blonde with soul-seeing eyes and lips so full they looked heavy. But she’d turned him down yesterday, and gone back to work. Self-preservation in action. She’d seen his soul, recognised it for the grubby little thing it was, and kept her hands clean.

  Christ, she’d terrified him.

  Abigail. The kind of beauty that did things to a man’s body. The kind of class that drew the eye and held it. She’d been captivating, even with sugar on her cheek and her gorgeous hair tucked into a ridiculous hairnet. She was Grace Kelly. Kate Winslett. And the things she’d created with her hands. Seen in her mind then pushed into reality.

  Terrifying.

  He had to see her again. Had to feel that alive again. Had to be that close to something so beautiful one more time.

  ‘Mary-Anne,’ he said again.

  She took longer to answer this time. She’d gone into the bedroom. He could hear her stripping the bed sheets and opening the curtains. She made him wait, which was fair enough. He paid her to clean, not to answer his inane questions.

  Nevertheless, he called her name again the moment she stepped into view.

  �
�Yes?’ Ever polite, ever patient. She never commented on the state of his place, or complained about finding him in varying states of disgrace almost every time she came around. She’d cleaned around him more times than he’d like to admit even to himself.

  ‘Where’s the most amazing place you’ve had tea in London?’

  Mary-Anne dropped his bed sheets on the floor by the cupboard containing the European laundry, then began gathering his discarded clothes. ‘I don’t eat in places you’d consider amazing, Mr Wheeler.’

  ‘I don’t mean expensive amazing, I mean wow amazing. Cool amazing. That tasted amazing amazing.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, and smiled. ‘In the middle of London?’

  ‘You know what, anywhere.’ He reconsidered and held up a finger. ‘Anywhere on this continent.’

  ‘Actually there’s a place nearby. It’s fun. It’s … memorable.’ She glanced around the open-plan living and dining at the various electrical wonders that made the whole place hum like a blissed-out bee. ‘And you do like your gadgets.’

  ‘I’m intrigued.’ He sat up straighter. Ignored the roll and press of nausea that threatened to reduce him to his knees.

  ‘I’ll write it down for you.’ She didn’t appear to trust that he would be able to retain the details.

  He thanked her and left her to her duties. Gingerly, and with much hissing and moaning, he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen. He downed another glass of water, dissolved an antacid and drank that too, then contemplated a much-overdue shower.

  His body ached. His hangover was blurring the post-accident pain, swirling it together in a sickening brew. A few things didn’t seem to be working. His left arm felt restricted and his nose had bled on and off since yesterday. In all he’d got off easy, but still. Ouch.

  ‘Is this blood?’

  Mary-Anne was holding his shirt up, examining the bright points of colour on an otherwise blank canvas. ‘And … what is this, food colouring?’ She turned to him, her eyes quizzical.

  ‘I was in a car accident,’ he replied. ‘Then I made cupcakes.’ He waved a hand at the shirt. ‘Toss it out, it’s ruined.’